Empty Eyes
by HybridWrites
Summary: When he opens his eyes, the world remains dark. AU/UA


It's a murky darkness that greets him. The pain long having since faded, but still with those jolting, agonizing echoes. He wants to curl back around, wrap his arms around where his stomach is and curl. He wants to hold himself against the last few remaining tremors. But the pain is just echoes, a phantom.

It's murky darkness that surrounds him.

His eyes are wide open. But the world remains dark. So it's more a light feathery feeling that draws him forwards. A distant squeaking, and something that lands in his hair. He pauses, feet unsure of which direction to take. There's another feather light feeling on his face, it feels almost like the slight brush of light on his skin.

So he follows that.

He follows until he runs up against an obstacle. Hands fumble in the shadows. Feeling the rough woody texture and sliding across until it finds a handle. A door. He hesitates for a moment, not sure if he really should. He twists the handle, pulling it down and pushes the door open. There's a lingering moment, a hesitance before he steps forwards.

Feet shuffling.

It's a bustling hub around him. Noise coming from all directions, scratching of quills on paper, voices calling, the shifting of sheets, tapping of footsteps, and the squeaking of trolley wheels. Clicks, whistles, voices that crash into each other and distract. He presses himself backwards, slamming against a wall and staring wide eyed into the darkness.

There's too much noise.

Too much, he lets out a small whine, wondering why he's still seeing darkness. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, raises his hands up to clap over. Nothing? There's a new thrill of something that runs through him, and frantically his hands press on the area, feeling a distinct lack of ears, and there's a funny hard sensation, he shifts them, feeling out his own face and only finding that same hard material, kind of course and rough and-

His nose is missing, he has holes to dip in near where his eyes are supposed to be and-

"Señor, por favor cálmese." a voice calls and he winces, whole body shuddering. "Señor, Señor?" he shakes his head, desperately fearful. Hands pressing down now, frantically seeking any sign that it's just a mask or something that's...

"W-what happened?" he finds his voice, it's rough and choked. And kind of hurts. "Wh-why am I-"

"A skeleton?" he shivers at the question. "lo siento señor. I'm afraid that you are dead." he shakes his head again, opening his eyes and staring blankly through murky shades in the direction of the voice. There's an intake a breath, a movement and he flinches back. There's a brush of air over his face and he screws it up uncomfortable. "Señor..." there's a pause "can you tell me what you're seeing right now?"

"I-" he hesitates, before pulling tighter to himself. Curling against the wall. "Lo siento... only darkness..."

There's only silence that follows.

* * *

He's not used to stumbling around. Reaching desperately for some kind of stability. He still has his suit, his charro as achingly familiar as anything else. But beyond that, he has nothing to cling to. He's also bounced around to several different people, each in quick succession and quickly finds himself lost. Every time he's called in it's a new voice, a new name.

It's lonely.

And at night when he lies staring up into the darkness there's a deeper ache that seeps through his every bone. A pain that shudders through him and leaves silent tears staining his cheekbones. He wants to roll over and be able to reach out and be assured that his wife is there. He wants to roll over and find someone who'll hold him and keep him safe. He wants his _hermano_. He wants to go home.

He cries most nights.

Cries until there's nothing left but the empty space.

"Héctor... this is Lydia Espino!" he sits in a hard chair, hands in his lap. Folded together and he doesn't bother looking up. It's not like it would make much of a difference. He pulls slightly tighter as someone else steps into the room, he can hear the tapping of a staff against the ground, slow shuffling steps.

And yet, the sound is almost purposefully loud. He wears his lip for a moment, wondering, before he shifts, turning his head in that direction. There's a grunt, something that might be approval, before the steps move around to in front of him and he straightens himself up.

"Hola niño!" a rough voice says, and he feels her take his hand into one of her own. He curls it automatically, shaking and she lets out a small laugh, low and somewhat familiar. "Well then, let's see if we can't get you settled in properly. And somewhere safe!"

"I am safe!" he grumbles as she releases his hand and there's a small laugh, automatic.

"Maybe niño, maybe. But you could definitely be safer!" he feels her leave the room and huffs. He's already sure she's just going to be another one who-

He's moving, jolting up and to the side without a thought or moment's hesitation something smashes into the chair he'd been on seconds previous, the crackling sound of wood. A shattering groan and creak, the click of fallen pieces. He growls, head snapping around, he spins around, moving backwards.

Only to topple, the bed right there.

"Quick reflexes niño, good instincts! We can build on these" he blinks, confusedly looking around. Straining to get any sense of. A hand presses on the top of his skull, gentle phalanges running through his hair. "We can build on this!"

* * *

His awareness builds slowly. Paying attention to what he can sort of sense around him, what he can hear and smell. Small things that build up and tell him what's going on. It's tricky sometimes, but the biggest help is the course. He slowly becomes surer with his steps. Able to navigate more in the crowds without worrying about needing a hand to lead him.

Able to navigate without worry about running into someone.

And he's got a small companion. That presence from the passage. Sitting up in his hair more often than not, letting out sounds of guidance. Something that he's learnt to distinguish between. He's never quite as sure as he once was, and there are still many problems.

He can't get a job.

No one's willing to hire him. He wonders what his eyes must look like now. Wonders whenever someone gasps seeing them. Wonders when he's turned away so often, chased off almost. But he's got a home to return to once more.

Lydia takes care of him.

And, he helps out around the hacienda as best he can. Clearing things, keeping track of the youngest Espino Familia members. Watching out for them. It's different, but he learns to adjust and prepares himself. Soon enough he'll get to cross over and while he won't be able to see them. He looks forwards to the day he can go home.

Marigolds have a kind of musky smell. Something nostalgic being evoked and a warmth blooms behind his ribcage. He waits almost too eagerly in the line, looking forwards and already trying to imagine what it would be like being able to cross over that bridge. He can't see it, but he's had it described to him.

Like a waterfall of marigolds, blooming in arches that lead back to the Land of the Living. A sea of golden-amber flowers that glow and promise safe passage home. Falling down into the abyss of nothing, but still standing. Holding everyone who's going to cross.

He can't wait to go home.

So it's like a drop in the river when he's guided forwards and there's a gasp. A quiet apology, and he's lead away. In the opposite direction to where he understands that the bridge is. Up in his hair, there's an angry squeaking, and he furrows his brow.

"Mama Lydia?" his voice sounds shaky, a pain in his ribcage. "Mama Lydia... isn't the bridge-"

"Lo siento Teto..."

Something breaks that day, and he's not sure what it is. He can only let her lead him away.

* * *

"Héctor!" he winces, feet dangling off the dock and into the abyss. Raising his head up and pushing a grin to his face. He knows that voice and is already dreading the steps that storm after it. Around him he can hear people wincing. Shuffling away and leaving him. "What are you doing down here! You know it's dangerous!"

He pushes himself up, getting his feet under him and on the wood of the dock.

"Lydia..."

"Don't even start!" she snaps, and he feels his arms drop back down. Rubbing at his arm, a familiar gesture. He doesn't need to look to know that she's got her lips pursed and is not happy with him. "You can't be wandering down here! What if you fell off the docks? Or missed the steps? You know it's dangerous. Especially for you!"

"Sí, Mama Lydia..." he lowers his head. Feeling his eyes dart uselessly, even though he knows. It's not going to help. "I understand but-"

"Uh, uh, uh! Don't just say Sí and that you understand!" her voice is a cutting blade and again he falls silent, wincing. "I'm trying to protect you! _We're_ trying to protect you. But we can't do that Teto, if you keep running off." he pulls in on himself slightly. "Now come on, we're going back to the hacienda!"

"I'll be back later!" he cheerfully calls with a wave as Lydia pulls him along, leading him across rickety boards and wooden decks.

"Not without an escort you won't." she grumbles. He rolls his eyes, before sighing. The steps beneath his feet become more stable, wood melting into stone and there's that solid leading presence of Lydia's hand the entire time. Pulling him along, assisting him to find the steps back up as they make the climb.

Leaving behind the quiet songs and murmurs, the background lapping of water against wood. Entering into the empty zone, the creaking of the wind as it whistles through empty buildings. Buzzing and chirping, the hum of insects, and a faint moist smell, distant crackling, another broken power pole. Ahead and he can hear the distant muffled sound of music.

Of crowds of people.

They stop and he sighs. Letting her fix his suit, neatening it up for him. Patting it down, and even without sight he knows she's scowling.

"You need to stop doing this Teto. It's not safe for you down there." her voice goes soft, and he crosses his arms uncomfortable, huffing out glaring at nothing. "Don't give me that look! You know why it's not safe, you can't see the danger until it's there Teto!"

"Sí, sí." he sighs. "I know, Mama Lydia, but-"

"No buts Teto!" he pulls back, and there's a sigh. He can feel her shifting, knows she's probably rubbing her forehead. "Por favor Héctor, por favor. Stay where we know you're going to be safe. We understand that you have friends down in the Shantytown... we understand."

"Then why can't I visit them?" he knows he's whining, he knows that there's a perfectly reasonable, understandable reason that he can't visit them. He's never longed for what he used to have so sharply before but still.

He can feel that she's about to answer explain the same thing that she's explained who knows how many times before when there's a shift. They both turn, him just so it seems normal and her almost defensively. There's an awkward shift, a shuffling, the rattling of stone against stone, and an almost miserable sounding groan. He brightens.

"Hola José!"

"Uh... Hola Héctor!" the greeting is returned with a tremble. "So you're required down at the station..." he feels Lydia's intake of breath, her step up and the reassuring curl of a hand on his shoulder. "It's... it's been five years and..."

"The review." Lydia's voice is more a breath, a sort of creeping horror in her voice and he finds himself screwing up his face in absolute perplexed confusion.

"Review?"

There's an awkward silence around him, only the distant chirping of insects. Only the distant echoes of movement, the sounds of the districts so close. There's a sigh, and he can feel Lydia's hand drop. A nervous, almost automatic chuckle from José.

"Sí," her voice is soft, making something in his ribcage curl "your case file review. We have to determine what's to happen from this point, and... make sure that there's nothing foul going on regarding why your family might not have put up your photo."

"I'll... go get the extra paperwork!" José's voice is far away, and he's not oblivious to what that means.

He takes a shuddery breath, feeling rather small. And merely nods his head. Understanding.

* * *

In 1942 a famous musician arrives.

There's a jolting chill, a pain too familiar. A burst of absolute pain and the collapse. He curls in on himself, and there are voices calling around him. A sea of people who're worried. But all he can do is tremble, hugging himself and crying silent trails of tears.

This is a different kind of pain, something so acute.

A pressure in his chest, especially because he knows one other detail. There are steps that approach, and he raises his head just enough. Taking deep gulping breaths of air. A swish of a dress, phalanges the run soothingly through his hair, whispered assurances that it will be alright.

"Hola Officer." he shudders, mind flashing the memory of a smile at him. He closes his eyes, and bows his head.

At least he doesn't have to see it again, but, somehow knowing the poison behind that grin hurts so much worse. He tunes out the hushed conversation between the officer and Lydia. Struggling to push himself to his feet instead. There's a swish in the air, an annoyed squeaking before a familiar weight lands on his head and he takes another shaky breath.

He makes it to his feet.

Limbs weak and trembling.

"Oficial, por favor." he swallows, curling his hands into the wooden railing that's close by. "What do you require of me?" there's a sigh, footsteps that come around to stand in front of him.

"Merely what you remember Héctor. Merely what you remember."

"Sí, I can provide that..." he mumbles. Feeling so very, very tired. There's a memory so distant of paperwork, of the horror of what it stated, _murder_. And that hurts. "I can provide that." he breathes. One hand moves to rub at a socket, and he tries to ignore the pain in his every limb.

There's a constant burn somewhere in the back of his eyes.

A white hot flare.

* * *

"Oh... Héctor..." he can barely recognize that voice. Just barely remember it from so long ago, and now it's a breath. A kind of horror that he feels deep down in his own aching bones. He keeps his head lowered, choosing not to lift his head. There's years of rejection between them, years of a story that he doesn't know.

He can't know, and now he's not sure what he knows or believes. Has no idea what she knew or didn't know. Again there's the memory of paperwork. Of sitting while José and Lydia read it around him, asked him questions and reviewed his own answers with him so carefully.

The memory of a cutting pain so deep, of an awareness of his own fate, that fatal truth. And everything shattering, crumbling to pieces around him. There's another memory, that trial, standing in front of a crowd that he could hear, whispers and murmurs. Disbelieving accusations. People who screamed at him in the street.

 _Liar, liar_

He can taste a bitter burn on his lips, the sweet taint of poison.

He twitches his hands, before folding them in, and curling. Bowing himself in.

"Héctor..." he can feel a hand reaching for him. It stops short and he flinches, not even trusting his own memories anymore. Was it real? Was any of it- "Lo siento."


End file.
